


its so easy humming songs (nothing is real; nothing to get hung about)

by cactusboob



Category: The Beatles (Band), The Monkees (Band)
Genre: Drugs, Hazy, LSD, M/M, Pining, as usual, he’s just in loovve, i may have screwed the timeline, idkh to tag this, its set when they go to that party, john lennon slander, micky is just darling, mike is weirdly poetic rn, ok uh, sorry john btw, sorry lennon, um, whatever no one cares, you know the one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28740105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactusboob/pseuds/cactusboob
Summary: He is a beacon, that Micky, of love and light and something else.or, alternatively, mike’s high and in love and john lennon’s kind of annoying
Relationships: Micky Dolenz/Mike Nesmith
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	its so easy humming songs (nothing is real; nothing to get hung about)

Micky is bright, incandescent, iridescent,  _ everything.  _ He flits about, eyes always on yours, smile always for you. And everything is red, blue, green. “Everythin’,” John slurs beside you.  _ John Lennon,  _ you think. “Is forever and nothing matters.” He is the next prophet, that John Lennon. Or maybe he’s just a pompous Brit with a penchant for semi-philosophical nonsense gibberish. The world is spinning, all topsy-turvy. You feel like you're living in a gag. Any moment now, and the camera will go off, and you can go home. You see voices, all bright and neon and pink. “Though, o’course,  _ something  _ has to matter. If nothing mattered, then nothing would be  _ real,  _ ya know?” You don’t know. But this is John Lennon, so you will humour him.  _ Micky, _ you think, because you are bored, and confused, and maybe, just maybe, he can read your thoughts. Maybe you two are telepathically linked. “And, now? Now there’s nothing to be hung up on.” John’s spouting gibberish, gibberish that means something, perhaps, and the roof above you is paisley-techno-barf green, and there are so many voices, and maybe you need a nap and--

Micky’s in front of you, then. A big smile on his face, and a drink in his hand. “Hi,” he says. John’s shut up. You feel a little rude, and also a little ungrateful- sitting here, at the most luxurious party you’ve ever been to and wishing that one of your idols, one of the people who’ve made you who you are, would just  _ shut up. _ “Howdy,” you drawl, tipping your hat as if you were some sort of cowboy. It gets the reaction you wanted. Micky breaks into a grin, and then, the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard. He  _ laughs.  _ And you’ve heard this laugh a million and one times, and, generally, there’s nothing remarkable about it. It’s just a laugh. It sounds a little high, a little airy, a little bit like a faerie taking off, batting it’s tiny wings and soaring through the air. And yet, and yet, you think,  _ this is a laugh that should be put in museums. In the Louvre. In the The Musée d’Orsay.  _

“I was talking to Paul, y’know, the  _ Beatle,  _ and he said, he said,” Micky is talking so fast, faster than the speed of light, fast enough to start a fire.  _ A fire in your heart, perhaps. That’s just silly. Maybe. I dunno know, What do you think? Could be better.  _ “Well, ok. I can’t remember what he said. Jus’ remember it was funny. Was gonna tell you but…” Micky trails off, suddenly saddened. He’s sad because he didn’t get to tell you a joke and your heart,  _ gah, the stupid thing,  _ it caves in on itself and  _ jesus.  _ You smile up at him, and  _ yeah, you’re screwed to high heaven.  _ John, who’s been watching this whole exchange, the poor dear, chuckles. “Perhaps I should leave you to buggers alone. There seems to be a snog due.” He says, and then he disappears. 

You and Micky both quirk up and eyebrow, staring at each other in abject confusion. That turns into a staring contest, which Micky loses when he flops down into a criss cross beside you, announcing, loud enough for John to hear, “John Lennon has a weird nose!” A laugh shocks it’s way out of you, and you look around, hoping that John didn’t actually hear.  _ “Micky,”  _ you scold. Micky flaps his hand at you, a dismissive gesture.  _ Whatever,  _ you think, lying down flat on the floor. MIcky hums. The party continues. You only have ears (and eyes, and mind, and soul, perhaps) for Micky. “I met this girl,” he says, and you steadfastly ignore that feeling of stupid, useless jealousy. You hum, a signal for him to continue. “She’s, uh. She’s a gas. Her name’s Sam. I think I like her.” 

“That’s nice, Mick,” you say.  _ I think I like you,  _ you think. Whatever. Micky hums, this time with a bit more rhythm, with a bit more beat. “‘Course,” he whispers, “I think I like  _ you  _ more.” All nonchalant and careless and before you can say anything, Micky lays down beside you. He looks up, up at the ceiling. You don’t say anything. Perhaps it is for the better. Your fingers itch to reach and card themselves in Micky’s hair. Get tangled up in there. You keep your fingers to yourself. Micky sighs. “And, anyway, Mike, I think they’re cool, the Beatles. A little intimidating, sure. But, cool.” And, for a moment, there is a surreal feeling of wonder, of awe. You have met the Beatles, you have partied with the Beatles, you have had sold out concerts, and you have a TV show. And all of that with the nicest looking fella you’ve ever met. 

Micky’s still taking, just rambling on and on. You could listen to it, all of it, all day long. Somewhere, somehow, Micky’s blathering takes a musical turn. “ And there doesn't seem a way that she won't come and lose my mind,” he half sings, half whispers. You smile. Micky has a beautiful voice. “Hey, hey Mike,” he pokes you, and you poke him back. “The four kings of EMI are sitting  _ stately  _ on the floor. Whaddya think?” You hum something, a little ditty of a beat to match the lyrics. “It’s nice, Mick.” And there’s that smile. That smile that is more beautiful than the Mona Lisa, more breathtaking than anything Davinci coulda done. A sunshine smile.

The world wittles down, until it is just you and Micky. Micky, who’s smiling at you with some akin to fondness. He is a beacon, that Micky, of love and light and  _ something else.  _ You swallow, mouth suddenly dry. The effect goes away and Micky is no longer smiling. Instead, he is looking down frowning. You reach out to him, grab him by the chin. Making him face you, you ask, “I ever tell you about that time I knocked over a chief’s plane in the Air Force?” and Micky giggles, a sound more pleasing than a bird’s song, because you have, multiple times.

You tell this story all the time, and every time, Micky listens with dancing eyes and a smiling mouth. But, still, Micky says, “No, Mistah Nesmith, I don’t believe you have,” with a terrible Southern Belle impersonation thrown in there somewhere. You laugh, and you feel it in your bones. “Well,” you begin, looking around like your telling a secret, like you are barring your soul, “when I was in the Air Force, I knocked down a chief’s plane.” 

And Micky laughs, and the party continues, and the world narrows down again, and-yeah. Maybe nothing is real, or maybe everything means something. As long as you’ve got Micky here, beside you and happy, nothing matters but the quirk of his lip.


End file.
